Superstition and pseudo-evidence-based hysteria: What recurrent miscarriage has done to my rational mind.

Written 22nd November, 2014.

We keep marching forward, one day at a time. What else can we do? Neither of us are ready yet to think about the possibility that there might be an actual baby at the end of all this. All of our utterances about short, medium or long term planning are qualified with ‘Depending on what’s going on, of course’. I know it annoys him, because he thinks that I think that he’s forgotten that there’s something going on. Or potentially going on. I qualify my qualifications by hastily explaining that, no, I don’t think he’s forgotten or unaware, but, rather, this is my way of not ‘jinxing’ things by foolishly and naively hoping for even one second that it isn’t all going to go terribly wrong again, again. Again.

Rationally, every week that passes means that the chances of success are just that little bit higher. We have now had a ‘good’ scan (i.e. one where the baby hasn’t died) at 8.3 weeks. Anecdotal (perhaps it’s also scientific; the people who I have heard say it say that they have heard it from doctors) evidence says that 8 weeks is a major milestone, as the baby moves from the embryonic to the foetal stage of development. Lots of the things that could have gone wrong have, by now, gone right. Or at least well enough to not shut the whole enterprise of life down. This is encouraging. What’s possibly slightly less encouraging is that that means we’ve had 3 days’ growth in 6 actual days. Funnily enough, I don’t find that I’m too freaked out by this, as I did feel that last week’s scan declaring us to be 8 weeks on the nose was rather over ambitious. I had thought we were more like 7 and a half. Mind you, we were 6.1 only 8 days prior to that. I guess it’s fractions of millimetres they’re measuring, and it’s different people each time making the clicks, so there’s going to be some room for some wriggle room. Everyone seems happy, anyway, and the sonographer didn’t make any mention of ‘slow growth’ on the report. And, actually, 8.3 does fit in almost exactly with my calculated dates. I need to stop looking for things to worry about.

The biggest moment of (post traumatic) insanity came when we realised that we were going to be scanned by The Sonographer Of Doom. I’m sure she’s absolutely lovely, but I can still remember her words almost three years ago when she was scanning me and said ‘Its not good news, I’m afraid.’. I know that there’s no easy was of saying it, but it was like being punched in the guts, and we both remember it, and associate it with her. I silently panic, as if there is, actually, some sort of mystical force at work in the universe (which I don’t believe that there is), and that it’s about to get me again.

Happily, it turns out that it isn’t. The lone magpie I saw on the roundabout on the way here fails again. Quiet my dark superstitious, paranoid mind. She even gave us a photo. He wasn’t too keen on getting it, because, I think, he’s not ready to breathe out and relax, but I thought it might be nice to have (and then immediately thought that it might bring some inexplicable bad luck and wondered whether I was tempting fate by accepting it). Whatever his reasons for hesitating to take the pictre, he says it isn’t because he thinks it’s bad luck. In truth, if we got a scan picture every time we went for a scan, we could have papered the cloakroom toilet with them by now. Given my aversion to seeing the things on social media, I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with it, anyway. It doesn’t even look like anything, except perhaps a potato from space.

Afterwards, we need to negotiate the next scan appointment. The EPU clinic is busy and we are seen to be making good progress. Can we go to 12 weeks? No. I explain that #3 died within days of a 9 week ‘good’ scan, which had seemed perfectly healthy. Worse, the progesterone I was taking (and am taking again), masked any sign that anything had gone wrong and it wasn’t discovered until 13 weeks at the ‘official’ scan. I also explain that I don’t want to have to wait until the ‘official’ scan because the way they have the rooms set up, with large monitors up on the wall in the corner, means that you get an excellent view of your deceased baby (in our case, as a screen grab, left up there even after the scan had been completed) starring down at you from the corner of the room whilst they send someone to fetch the leaflets. This, presumably is in case you forget what’s happened. Oh, and the delivery of the news on that occasion was truly exceptional: ‘Oh, there should be a baby in there.’ No shit?! And me here for my 12 week scan, and all… It’s enough to make you wonder whether they train some of these sonographers in how to give bad news. (Let me qualify this, MOST are EXCELLENT, but when they aren’t, they really aren’t).

I’ve made my case, and the clinic nurse is going to see what she can do. But I do need to book in with a midwife, she tells me. I don’t want to do this, either. More jinxing and bad luck. I don’t like having to text them when it all goes wrong, I plead. You won’t get your 12 week scan in time if you don’t, I am told, in no uncertain terms. Check mate. So, that’s all now booked for Tuesday. It will take about a million years to recount my history. I hope she knows how to ‘manage’ me and my craziness…

All the other signs are encouraging. I permanently feel as though I’ve just disembarked from a Waltzer, and I’m totally knackered. All good, although, as we know, meaningless, really. Still, we must keep moving forward, one day, one week at a time. Baby steps.

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